Microwave nightfall.


    "Hysterectomy

I want nothing left.
No threads stringing eggs like small beads
Across the bottom of an ice box.

No second chance will wear my face,
And cry out to be born
From another woman's belly.

No stolen child of mine will know
His blood was borrowed, and his third mother
Was a brittle thing, seen through like glass.

My disease will be stripped out
Like the rotten lining of a leather coat,
And, neatly sewn, I will end here."

--Frieda Hughes


The Secret History of the English Language.


It was a close call my car breaking down yesterday. It could have been the day before, when i'd gone downtown and parked in the library's underground garage. Before when i broke down there, i spent all day calling every wrecker in the phone book till i found the single one that could fit down there.


Ghazal.


Eccentric Glamour.